


gravity

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always1895, Cuddling, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-15 15:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14792891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: When Sherlock comes back, they can't stop holding each other.





	gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akhenatensmummy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akhenatensmummy/gifts).



> Written for the June #Always1895 fic prompt challenge: _cuddling._
> 
> Thank you [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour) for the inspiration, the feedback, and the beta!
> 
> A gift for my beloved friend Akhenaten's Mummy. You keep me right!

The moment John sees him, a raw sound tears itself from his heart and lungs.

“Sherlock” – it claws at his vocal cords. It slams against the walls, leaving marks on the wallpaper.

Everything moves and then Sherlock's body is alive against John's hurting lungs. His neck is thin against John's forearms, his shoulder conceals John's face entirely if he presses hard enough.

“John” – it's a breeze ghosting through the hair on John's crown. The sound doesn't travel farther than John's ears.

John's radius bones dig into Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's arms are big enough to be everywhere, a blanket around John's trembling body.

“Don't ever do that again.” It's a hoarse gasp into Sherlock's jacket.

“I'm so sorry, John.” Sherlock stands still, stoic, stable, eyes closed. “I will tell you everything, I promise.”

There is nothing to say. Useless words tear at one another within John's throat, soothing words weigh at Sherlock's heart. None of the words are more real than this:

Warmth. Softness of skin. Firmness of muscle. Hardness of bone. Movement of breath. Desperate pounding of a pulse.

 _It's over_ – it screams in John's mind.

 _It's over_ – it whispers in Sherlock's diaphragm.

 

“Is this real? Are you back?”

Their pulses are calmer. They're breathing in sync. John's voice is small in his ear.

“I am back.”

A concurrent tightening of arms around rib cages.

“Are you alive?” A whisper.

“I am alive.”

A stuttered exhale – could be a laugh or a sob or something infinitely more complicated – blows against a curl. Sherlock's skin tingles where John's face is.

“Then I'm not letting you go.”

John's hands stroke down his arms to show that he means it literally.

Does it need saying?

“I'm not letting you go either.”

 

A body; an intricate system. A factory of chemical reactions. Air in, oxygen absorbed. Nerve impulses, heart contracting, blood rushing. Nutrients transformed, energy, heat. Muscles tensing. Nerve endings perceiving. Brain processing, accommodating. Carbon dioxide eliminated. Air out.

Their bodies are pressed together in the back of a cab. John's head is on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's chest rises and falls and his breath sings in John's ear.

His system works tirelessly under the surface of his skin.

Sherlock's nose is in John's hair. It smells like 221B Baker Street.

It's beautiful.

They haven't stopped touching for a second. Getting into the cab was awkward, and for a moment the only point of contact was their hands. John got in first, then gripped Sherlock's hand hard while he ducked into his seat. They slid together, each shrinking their body to hide in the arms of the other.

 

221B Baker Street is exactly the same. Sherlock's eyes feel full and prickling. John presses closer from behind him on the landing and strokes his hand over Sherlock's stomach.

“Sofa?”

Sherlock could weep.

He does.

They lie down facing each other in the small space. Their legs slot together. John shuffles until he finds the way they fit best, where they touch at as many square inches as possible.

They've wanted this, they both absently note. Not just when Sherlock was gone and they wanted each other in every way. Any tiny breeze of the other they could – couldn't – get.

They also wanted this before.

Sherlock breathes calmly through his slow tears and it's all so easy.

 

Words come quietly. They flow between them like the exchange of body heat, of tactile sensation, of air to breathe, of sweat. They are as honest as the beat of their hearts against the other’s chest.

Sherlock mumbles why he had to.

John tells him that he loves him.

It's the only way he knows to explain his grief. In that moment, he doesn't think about what he really means, and it doesn't occur to Sherlock to wonder.

Their voices are familiar and vibrating through lips ghosting over skin, and the music of it matters more than the meanings.

 

Sherlock needs to get up.

John's hand tightens painfully on his upper arm.

“Three minutes, John”, Sherlock whispers. Up close like this, his pale eyes are the only colour in the world. “Two minutes and forty-two seconds.”

John feels his face slide into a soft smile.

“I'm not letting you go.”

“I'm not letting you go either.”

Sherlock slips away down the hall. John shivers on the worn leather of the sofa.

 

Sherlock comes back to John sitting in his chair. His knees are pulled up to his chest, arms tight around them. The still air quivers around his ragged breath.

Sherlock's hand lands on his shoulder. John moans, his legs melting away from his chest, his forehead falling forward onto Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock's hands card through John's short hair. John clutches hard at Sherlock's hips. It's not enough.

Gravity pulls Sherlock forward, knees sliding in on either side of John's thighs. John scoots forward in his seat. Their arms lock around each other, as tight as they can.

It swirls and tingles over the whole front of the body, like endorphins leaking in through their clothes to soothe the pain in the solar plexus.

Together they sigh in relief.

 

“Your bed or mine?”

“Mine is bigger.”

They move slowly down the hall. Sherlock is behind John, arms around his waist, legs trying to match John's gait.

John pushes the door open and pauses.

“No. We'd need to-”

“-change the sheets. I'm not letting go to change the sheets.”

“No. We'll take my bed.”

“It won't matter that it's small. I'm not letting you go.”

John squeezes Sherlock's hand over his breastbone.

They brush their teeth hip to hip. John watches Sherlock in the dirty mirror. He looks tired and domestic and human. Sherlock lets him watch in peace.

 

They sleep.

Sherlock's shirt is crisp against John's bare arms. John's undershirt is soft against Sherlock's nose.

John wakes up crying. Sherlock soars between wakefulness and sleep with John's body shaking in his arms. He lets himself be held, clutched, possessed.

They sleep again.

 

They cook breakfast clumsily. Hand to lower back, chin to shoulder, fingers to cheek, foot to foot; each body refuses to leave the other without a point of contact.

They eat awkwardly on the sofa, upper arms and knees pressed together.

The early morning is bright and unreal. Their bodies are heavy with change and poor sleep.

When the plates are empty, John sighs in relief and rearranges their position. Sherlock sits up against the armrest and John settles between his legs with a book.

Sherlock's phone beeps.

“Mycroft”, he mutters.

“You can't leave.”

Sherlock curls his arms around John's chest and hides his face underneath his collar.

The scent of his skin is more beneficial to Sherlock's blood than oxygen molecules are.

 

They can't leave.

They can't let go and spin away in one direction each, holding on to each other through weaker bonds like words and looks.

They need to become an entity, to create their own gravity. The world needs to clear up and spin around them.

They can't stop touching.

They manage an outing to the grocery store. There they can, at the very least, link their arms together. Other people get annoyed when they take up space in the queue.

Other people aren't even worthy of a glare.

They stop in the cereal aisle to hug.

Sherlock reaches out to touch John's hair while he examines the cheese brands.

They bump their hips together and pretend they aren't unreasonably having fun at a boring supermarket.

 

In John's bed at night, they talk. There are no filters for words between them.

Sometimes they giggle. Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes it goes on forever though there's never any real reason.

One time they kiss. There's no surprise in it. It's just the way it is.

John kisses the same way he rests his palm between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, pressing gently to guide him.

Sherlock kisses like he's been on the edge of the world a million times.

John caresses Sherlock's lips with his mouth softly, steadily, slowly.

Sherlock clings and whimpers and it's suddenly _more_.

What was already a necessity to touch becomes a powerful urge. What was the comfort of familiar clothes becomes the thrill of naked skin.

They consume one another, exhalations becoming inhalations, mouths closing around smooth skin, sweat absorbed through their pores.

When they part for cooling air, the only point of contact is their little fingers.

Sherlock turns his head on the pillow. His eyes are gleaming in the dark, and John can just make out the hill of his cheekbone.

With their mouths brushing together, the words from Sherlock blend with the air on John's lips.

“I love you.”

John can taste them.

And they both know what he means.


End file.
